by Alaric Bond
* * *
On the deck below, Bleeden and the others left at his gun were watching with detached interest. The broadside had shocked them as much as anyone aboard, and those previously nominated had gone to assist. But it was the duty of the rest to remain with their weapons, and they were happy to do so. Let those detailed for such work make the repairs, and clear away bodies. All knew the first lieutenant was dead, however, and there were rumours about the captain being hit into the bargain. But now Lieutenant King had arrived, things seemed to be getting back to normal. Something more personal was worrying Bleeden though, and he was particularly keen to settle the matter as soon as possible.
“'Ere, you're wrigglin' about like a bucket load of eels.” Carter, a Londoner, informed him. “You needin' the 'eads again or somethin'?”
“Aye,” Bleeden confirmed. Mr Corbett was distracted and this seemed as good a time as any. “Cover for me, will you?”
There were men stationed at the auxiliary tiller gear, but none took notice of him. Bleeden slipped past and, after a careful look about, into the officers' quarter gallery once more. Inside it was just as expected, and he pulled a face in private remorse. There was his planned booty, where he had left it; Bleeden pocketed everything bar one of the cakes of soap, leaving the third out of politeness: it wouldn't do if all the lieutenants had to go about unshaven, now, would it? Then, finally, he reached up to the open lantern and deftly shut the small door, closing down the light and returning the quarter gallery to its rightful darkness.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Michael Caulfield's dead, I suppose,” Banks pondered a while later. “We served together for so long, it will seem strange without him.”
King shifted uneasily. The captain's wound had been attended to; a wide canvas bandage having been placed about his head by one of the loblolly boys, as Banks refused to quit the quarterdeck. And now he stood, or rather slumped, against the binnacle, occasionally blocking sight of the compass that Brehaut was so keen to keep under his eye, while making occasional comments that varied wildly in their relevance.
“Moon's due in forty minutes,” Brehaut commented softly, and King was reassured that the remark had been addressed to him and not the captain. But could it really be so long since they were hit? No French vessel had been sighted in the meantime and visibility was still poor, although the masthead had reported a glimpse of the coast some time ago, and Prometheus remained set on her course to clear it, as well as Cape Creus that lay beyond.
For King was, unknowingly, following his captain's plan, if for subtly different reasons. He held few hopes the British would rescue them, his main intention in seeking the southern French coast, was simply to disappear. To King's mind such an extreme move would put Prometheus out of sight of all enemy warships by the time the moon rose, and may even leave them safe to proceed more directly towards Toulon when dawn finally broke.
“He was my premier aboard Pandora, don't you know?” Banks told them conversationally. “That would have been in 'ninety-six, or was it seven?”
King was about to respond when a call came from the masthead.
“Sail ho! Ship in sight, fine off our starboard bow,” it was the voice of one of the midshipmen, King could not be certain who, and carried the edge of urgency that would have made all listen, even if it had been spoken in another language. “Less'n a mile off,” the lad added, “an' steering more to the north.”
King automatically looked to the captain, then away again, as the man had clearly not understood.
“I'd chance that to be the larger frigate,” Brehaut said, in a reassuringly level voice. “She will probably be searching for us.”
“So I was thinking,” King replied. “Should we engage?”
“Not for me to say,” the sailing master began. “Though I would not persuade you against such an action.”
King waited.
“We shall be more vulnerable as soon as the moon rises. But at least this gives the chance to settle one before then; the other will be of little menace on its own, and might yet disappear before daybreak.”
That made sense and King felt both glad and relieved that Brehaut was proving such a stout ally.
“Then take her a point to larboard,” he said softly. “And let us see if we cannot pay back the earlier compliment.”
* * *
Corbett was near enough to understand what was about, yet not be too involved, which actually suited him perfectly. He knew the captain remained on the quarterdeck, although all orders were coming from the second lieutenant, so guessed Sir Richard to be wounded in some way. And he was still every bit as keen to distinguish himself, so long as it could be limited to personal and independent acts of bravado; maybe leading, or repelling, a boarding party, or saving someone from certain death. Surely he felt no inclination to interfere with anything Tom King might have planned. The idea of commanding a damaged warship, especially one lacking both captain and first lieutenant, and currently running from a superior enemy, held no appeal whatsoever.
And on the deck below, Flint was equally happy to be kept out of matters that did not concern him. Mr Franklin, the former acting lieutenant, was now supporting Mr Lewis, who had moved up to full command of Prometheus' main guns. Flint didn't know how he felt about the former; he was old to be a midshipman, and had very publicly failed as a lieutenant, yet retained a measure of personal authority that was quite uncommon even in senior men. And Flint, like most seamen, respected such things.
There was a buzz that other principle officers had either been killed, or were out of action, but Mr King had gone to sort matters out. And there would still be a battle, he was sure of that. With at least two Frenchmen in the vicinity and several more besides, their guns would be in use before the end of the night. And this time it would be a proper target – no more long range pot shots at pirates, or pounding away against shore emplacements that had the annoying quality of being unsinkable. He still wanted nothing more than a decent ship to ship action; and preferably one close enough to let him see the damage his efforts were causing. And to kill Frenchmen – that was becoming an all embracing passion.
It was not that he blamed the French for his condition, and actually held no animosity for the people themselves. But the illness was continuing to spread, and no longer confined its efforts to merely sapping strength or taking control of his body. It now left him with an inexpressible feeling of anger and frustration: one that was impossible to exhaust or deny. And if the French, for so long his country's sworn enemy, provided an outlet for both, he supposed they were almost doing him a favour.
* * *
King had little idea what was in the enemy captain's mind, and only a rough notion of his own intentions. But he did know that bringing Prometheus close to even a heavy frigate could only be of benefit. Apart from a couple of quarterdeck carronades, the British ship's fire power remained unaffected, while the carpenter and boatswain, though both limited by the caution inherent to their trades, had pronounced the mizzen solid enough for the current state of wind.
The final point was one that bothered him slightly. Their breeze had been constant for so long he had naturally assumed it would remain so, but in the last fifteen minutes a number of minute variances were signalling a more permanent change likely. In fact, there could be no doubt about it; he had already noticed a slight increase, and the banks of cloud were definitely starting to disperse. If it were to gather strength further, they would disappear completely; in half an hour Prometheus could be left in stark moonlight. Then speed would become more important and he must return to worrying about the state of the mizzen.
But at least one minor annoyance had been solved, Captain Banks having finally been persuaded to rest in the chart room, the small cabin set to larboard and under the lee of the poop. He had been gone for several minutes, and King sincerely hoped he was asleep.
“What do you see there?” he bellowed to the maintop, and was reassured by the brief delay that showed
those at the masthead were checking before making a reply.
“Nothing of the enemy at present,” the young voice which belonged to Bentley, told him. “But there's still a solid bank of fog about their last position, and we thinks them to be hiding within.”
“Anything elsewhere?”
“No, sir.” The news was hearteningly positive. “We're running a constant sweep and have clear water to windward for upwards of a mile.”
King supposed that was also reassuring. Even if the heavy frigate had managed to escape, Prometheus was still heading away from what the French would regard as the obvious course. For the British to allow a following wind to take them towards a lee shore was probably the last thing the enemy would suspect.
“Deck there!” it was the main lookout again, but this time the voice held a note of urgency. “The fog's clearing ahead, an' we can see topmasts.”
King and Hunt, who stood nearby, exchanged glances; if their masthead could make out the enemy, it was likely to be visible in return.
“It would look to be the frigate, though she appears to have changed heading, and is steering northwards, roughly a mile an' a half off our starboard bow.”
Still they waited on the quarterdeck.
“No, she's altering course, and coming round.” Then, after a suitable pause. “She's tacking.”
* * *
“Very good, gentlemen, I think we may expect action,” King said, his voice oddly formal. The enemy were offering battle and, even if the inevitable broadsides banished any thoughts of staying hidden, he would be foolish to pass up such an opportunity. But there were ten minutes at least before the first shots would be fired, and King had something very important to do.
Rumours and tittle-tattle circulated aboard every ship, and one about to go into action was even more vulnerable to the eroding power of gossip. Prometheus had a good and loyal crew; men he could trust: men who knew the truth when they heard it, and would appreciate being informed of the situation. He flashed a look at Hunt, who was standing to his right. “Kindly send the upper deck aft; I wish to speak with them. And be sure that my message is relayed to those below.”
It took hardly any time before he was looking down from the break of the quarterdeck and into a dark sea of faces that stared expectantly back at him.
“I thought you should all know what is about,” he began, only mildly hesitant. “We have taken damage, though not severe, and Prometheus is undoubtedly able to fight.” There was a rumble of approval, but he did not stop.
“However, many are aware we have lost officers, and I am sorry to tell you Mr Caulfield, our first lieutenant is killed.” Now there was silence: he had the attention of every man on the upper deck, and probably most below. “The captain is also wounded, but not badly and will soon recover.” He had insufficient grounds for the last statement, but could see no need for making matters worse. “I command at present, and have Mr Brehaut and Mr Hunt as well as the other lieutenants to support me. With luck Sir Richard shall resume his duties before long, but if anyone thinks of behaving differently in the meantime, they must change their minds this instant.”
Still the silence, while King was now firmly into his stride.
“And you probably know equally well, there are Frenchmen in the area,” this time there was a murmur of comment which King rode expertly. “And quite a superior force – or it would be, if only they were British.” He had purposefully allowed an element of humour to creep in, and the men recognised the fact with isolated chuckles. “At present, a heavy frigate is bearing down on us, and will be within range shortly. I need not remind anyone we are a third rate, and can out gun and out man any of her size with ease. All I ask is you do not let me, the captain, or the ship down, and that the enemy is despatched with the minimum fuss.”
Now came a muttering of eager anticipation and, as the men were dismissed, King turned back to Brehaut and Hunt who were nodding with approval.
“You hit the right note there, Tom,” Hunt told him. “Why even that old smuggler Bleeden seemed happy.”
* * *
And Corbett was also encouraged. A French heavy frigate would prove an excellent target for his guns while if, as he hoped, they could lay alongside, he was the perfect officer to lead a boarding party. Reynolds might do much with his marines of course, but Corbett remained confident of taking overall command. And if not that, then at least the glory.
“Ready starboard battery,” he ordered, checking his midshipmen and quarter gunners were in position. The enemy had been reported as close hauled off their starboard bow, so there was little likelihood of the other battery being used. His guns were eighteen pounders: as big as any the French might be carrying, while below, on the lower gun deck, twenty-eight thirty-two pound monsters were also waiting to do their business. All any of them wanted was the chance.
* * *
The moon had finally started to rise in the east, and the frigate could now be seen from the deck. She was less than half a mile off, and heading almost straight at them, apparently intending to exchange broadsides as she passed. King could not help but think such an action to be rash for a single decker of any size. Two flashes came from her forecastle as he watched, and shortly afterwards the whine of round shot passed them by.
“Bow chasers,” Hunt commented unnecessarily. “Chances are our friend is a touch impatient.”
King made no reply, but noted the young officer seemed unusually stiff, and guessed nerves were starting to take control. All about was silent, the men were standing by their guns and waiting patiently, which was undoubtedly the best course of action. He wondered if the lack of Sir Richard's presence had unsettled Hunt, then dismissed the matter from his mind and thought instead of the oncoming battle. There was something in the frigate's headlong attack that worried King, and he knew he would realise what, if only he were allowed to concentrate.
“Okay, lads, it won't be long now,” Hunt cautioned the carronade crews, and King was more certain than ever the waiting was affecting him. It must be very much the same in the French ship, he told himself, and Prometheus would present a far more imposing foe. He wondered briefly what he would do if some quirk of fate had placed him in command of the frigate, and then, in a rare flash of insight, it came to him.
“Make ready to turn to larboard,” he warned, and Adams, the midshipman stationed under the poop, sprang to attention.
“Turn to larboard?” Hunt questioned, and even Brehaut, standing next to the binnacle, looked round in surprise.
“I expect her to tack, and lay across our hawse,” King explained. Watch for the first sign, and move as soon as it is sighted.”
He felt his face flush in the cold night air, and was conscious that several hands at the nearby carronades were considering him with interest. He may just have made a first rate fool of himself, but the French appeared too easy a target, and he was convinced a trick was being planned. And then, just as the doubts were beginning, he saw a flutter in the enemy's fore topsail.
“They're turning!” It was Brehaut's voice that rang out but, due to King's warning, all had been ready, and Prometheus' helm was put across almost simultaneously with that of her opponent. The frigate must have been no more than a quarter of a mile off by then, and clearly intended to present her entire broadside to the third rate's prow. As it was, both ships eased round until they were abreast of the other, with the British liner having a slight advantage in being a few yards ahead.
“Fire!” King yelled, just as one of the guns on the lower deck reacted early. Still, the remaining broadside blasted out a second later, and the increasing moonlight allowed those on the quarterdeck to see their shots tell.
“Beautiful, Tom, beautiful!” Hunt was bellowing in his ear, and King knew the young man's nerves had been chased away by the gunfire.
“She's taking damage,” Brehaut commented more steadily as the enemy's fore and main topmasts tumbled in a muddle of spars and canvas. But even as the French ship was reeling
from her injuries, her broadside roared back.
The first shots hit Prometheus almost immediately and soon the British ship's hull was comprehensively covered. King had assumed the frigate to be armed with eighteen pounders, although what was landing felt a good deal larger. But whatever its weight, the broadside did significant damage.
Several holes were punched through their starboard bulwarks, carrying seamen, gun crews and marines with them as they continued across the ship. And more material damage was caused to their fittings, with the clang of iron on iron being heard often, while clouds of dust and splinters rose up, and there was the unmistakable scent of burning. The starboard mizzen channels were hit once more, this time taking almost all support from the mast and, when the flag locker was struck, both poop and quarterdeck became littered with gaily coloured bunting. But the command group, such as it was, remained unhurt, and King looked to Brehaut and Hunt in shared relief.
“Upper battery ready!” that was Corbett's voice, and King blessed the fact that he had been able to keep his men at work serving the guns.
“What of the lower?” King asked. There was a pause before confirmation came from his previous station. Then, once more, the battleship shuddered to the mighty rumble of her broadside guns.
“Take us to starboard!” King's mind was leaping ahead, and had already recorded the fact they were steadily gaining. To turn now would allow them to rake the enemy's bows, whilst ensuring Prometheus cleared the nearby mainland. They turned slowly, and were late in sending their next broadside. But no shots were received from the French and soon the British ship was once more heading west, and out of the enemy's arc of fire. King watched in bemused silence as the next barrage was taken mutely on the frigate's prow and noted, with unconcern, that deadly flames were now starting to reach up from her inner depths.
“Can we take more sail?” he asked Brehaut, but the sailing master shook his head.
“We're risking much as it is,” he told him sadly. “And certainly should not wish to place the mizzen under more pressure.”
